Uncle William nodded. “I thought so.
And I don’t s’pose they’ve changed
the lay of Broadway a gre’ deal?”

“No—­not much.”

“Well, I reckon I can find it. I gen’ally
do; and I can’t get far out o’ the way
with this.” He touched the compass that
hung from the fob of the great watch. “I’ve
been putty much all over the world with that.
I reckon it’ll p’int about the same in
New York as it does in Arichat. Now, I’ve
got your breakfast ’most ready, but I can’t
seem to remember about your coffee.—­You
take sugar and milk in it, don’t you?”

“Yes.” The tone was almost sulky.

Uncle William looked at him shrewdly over his spectacles.
“I don’t believe you feel well enough
to see anybody for a good while, do you?”

The artist’s face changed subtly—­like
a child’s. It was almost cheerful.

Uncle William laughed out. “That’s
better—­a little mite better. I guess
’bout day after to-morrow you’ll do to
see company.”

The young man stretched out a hand. “I
must see her. I shall get up—­”

“There, there. I wouldn’t try to
get up if I was you,” said Uncle William, genially.
“I’ve put away your clothes, different
places. I don’t jest know where they be,
myself. It’ll be quite a chore to get ’em
all together. You jest lie still, and let me manage.”

The young man ate his breakfast with relish.
A subtle resolve to get up and do things was in his
eye.

Uncle William watched it, chuckling. “Sha’n’t
be able to keep him there more’n a day longer,”
he said. “Better feed him well whilst I
can.” He prepared clam-broth and toast,
and wondered about an omelet, rolling in and out of
the room with comfortable gait.

The artist ate everything that was set before him,
eagerly. The resolve in his eye yielded to appreciation.
“You ought to have been a chef, Uncle William.
I never tasted anything better than that.”
He was eating a last bit of toast, searching with
his fork for stray crumbs.

Uncle William nodded. “The’ ’s
a good many things I’d o’t to ‘a’
been if I’d had time. That’s the
trouble with livin’. You don’t hev
time. You jest practise a day or two on suthin’—­get
kind o’ ust to it—­and then you up
and hev to do suthin’ else. I like cookin’
fust rate while I’m doin’ it. . . .
I dunno as I should like it reg’lar, though.
It’d be kind o’ fiddlin’ work, gettin’
up and makin’ omelets every mornin’.”